


Deal or no Deal

by Voido



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, Misunderstandings, Photography, Proposals, Weddings, keith is so damn literate, knife, or well, sword - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 11:55:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20153179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voido/pseuds/Voido
Summary: Weddings are special, an exception to his principles—that's what Lance tells himself every time he underprices his own services as a photographer. Seeing people smile and start a new life together is worth more than a little extra money. It’s not prestigious, but most of the time, it’s just enough for him to get by.It’s a simple life. Until one day, he finds a letter in his pocket.And, sure, he doesn’t know who the stranger with the pretty handwriting could even be, but that’s not going to stop him from doing something stupid. Like meeting them.Maybe Lance’s life is not as simple as he always thought.





	Deal or no Deal

**Author's Note:**

> For the "Hey There, Sharpshooter" bang!!  
I originally wanted to make this longer, but didn't find the time. Who knows? Maybe there'll be a sequel someday, lol.  
Go check out the beautiful art [griffonskies](https://griffonskies.tumblr.com) made for this by clicking [here](https://griffonskies.tumblr.com/post/186841572966/deal-or-no-deal)!

Weddings were special.

In the  _ out of the ordinary _ way, because you don ’t exactly go to a wedding every other day, but also on very personal one for Lance McClain himself. Weddings meant happy people, smiles and laughter and families coming together, and if the thought of people deciding to spend their lives together wasn’t the most romantic thing in the entire world, then he had no idea who was.

Weddings were also, as a matter of fact, ridiculously expensive. Aside from calculating how to feed the suddenly huge number of people who want to be a part of your life, you also have to consider necessities, even the seemingly simpler ones like decoration, or, in this very specific case, a photographer.

Because you wouldn ’t want to risk  _ not _ getting some great pictures of the best day of your whole life, right?

And because it was such a universally known thing that good things had their price, and that nothing was quite too expensive when it came to this very specific day, it also wasn ’t a secret that the really good ones, photographers who knew what they were doing, who gave it their all to make the very best even better on film—or, well,  _ display _ these days, but  _ details _ ; shit, they were expensive. Like  _ may actually be the reason you starve for a week after wedding day _ expensive.  _ Consider letting your weird uncle take the pictures instead _ expensive. Which was such a sad thought to even have to think about at what should be the perfect moment in time.

Which also was where Lance came into play. Because, call him arrogant or whatever, but he  _ was _ a stupidly good photographer —kind of a given considering how much time he invested into it on a literal daily basis—and he was also, undoubtedly, to the great admiration  _ and _ disappointment of everyone he knew, stupidly easy to break apart with pretty smiles and a wave of happiness.

So, yeah, in conclusion, here he was, smiling to himself or to the newly-weds or their family or whoever passed him by in between taking a stupidly large amount of stupidly great pictures, all the while knowing that he wasn ’t getting paid nearly enough by anyone here for it to be  _ objectively _ worth the effort and time it cost him. That was, of course, totally alright, though, because he was very much a grown-up man and thus entirely capable of turning a request down at any given time and instead come together with someone who ’d pay him better than that.

_ Theoretically _ .

Theoretically, he also knew that if he didn ’t change his politics about wanting to be the nice guy—the  _ actually  _ nice one who takes crazy-good pictures for crazy-poor people so they have a crazy-memorable wedding day —then he himself would soon be the one in just as much financial trouble as them, because landlord sure as hell did not share Lance ’s sentiment about being a good person towards those in need and having mercy when it was dearly needed.

But he ’d worry about that tomorrow—or, actually, not, because he had  _ another _ assignment there —but surely the day after; what was it? Monday, right. Mondays were good, because they meant he got to be to himself with a large bowl of cheap ice cream, a pointlessly huge comforter that he could cuddle into three times, and his favorite shows on Netflix running up and down as if they didn ’t know how to stop.

Mondays were good.

He ’d make it through this weekend without losing his charm or smile or professionalism even once, and he’d worry about the future when it came crashing down.

Mondays were good.

And weddings were special.

———————————

Okay, so,  _ maybe _ this whole  _ not thinking about it _ deal was not quite as easy as Lance had originally hoped, because he found himself tossing and turning that night —after stupidly checking his calendar and realizing it was already the 27th of the month—and when he woke up the next morning, it felt like he ’d never fallen asleep. The pathetically polite smile his roommate and absolute best friend Hunk gave him did not help in the slightest, because they both knew what was up and that neither of them would address it, and then Lance was already out the door because this wedding was scheduled so annoyingly early that it caught even him, an adaptable guy if he’d ever met one, entirely out of his loop.

Or into …into a spiral.

Spiral of desperation of death.

Yeah. That fit.

———————————

This wedding was  _ loud _ .

There were less people than on the one the day prior, but there was a significantly different adult-child-ratio, and for once, Lance thanked his entire family for being as ridiculously big as it was, because it meant he knew how to deal with three kids playing tag around his legs, while also entertaining a seemingly bored grandma  _ and _ taking pretty pictures of pretty people in pretty attire.

Without breaking a sweat.

Well, without breaking a big sweat.

It still didn ’t prevent him from needing a good old break a while in, granted because this time there actually, legitimately  _ was _ some sort of creepy uncle who bumped into him and, with a quite unnecessary amount of offense in his voice, stated:  _ “Can do this on our own, kiddo. _ ”

_ Kiddo _ .

And now, Lance was not going to fuck up his deal and risk trouble by putting up a fight, but he ’d lie if he said that getting such a mental punch to the face after agreeing to an embarrassingly cheap deal with the two newly-wed brides didn’t set him just the tiniest bit on fire.

Because it did. It set him on fire alright. Made his insides scream to set  _ someone _ on fire, too. Something. Not the kids or grandmas, but, you know.

“God.” He ran a hand over his face, leaned against the wall next to the balcony door leading inside for a hot second. He just needed to breathe for a minute straight—not think about anything, not look at anyone, not listen to the kids who had momentarily forgotten about his very existence, not give the creepy uncle dude the satisfaction of having gotten under his skin.

Because, really, he shouldn ’t have. The pictures creepy uncle dude was taking were going to be worthless, Lance could tell that from the very shitty angle very far away where he was standing, so if anything, there should’ve been some sort of pride in him. Pettiness. The knowledge that the pictures going in the family album were going to be the ones he took for way too small a payment.

But he couldn ’t, because there he was, stupid as hell, thinking about the  _ way too small payment _ he was getting for this kind of stress, how it shouldn ’t be worth it, how he could be making  _ so much more money _ if he finally took the rosy sunglasses off and realized that sometimes, making other people happy simply wasn ’t enough to justify making himself very _ , very _ unhappy with the possibility of not being able to cover his rent without having to live a month off cheap, low-nutritious noodles vacuumed in cheap plastic bags.

Or, well, Hunk ’s endless graciousness which Lance honest to god knew he didn’t deserve. Which he’d already been doing for the last three months or something.

And it was small, fragile moments like this one, where he took a breather and reminded himself of how fleeting all of this was, of how terribly idiotic it was of him to believe he could make the world a better place by offering his services on the cheap. It was these moments where he told himself that this was it, it was the last time and from now on, all his decisions would not be solely based on trying to be a good person, but definitely taking into consideration that he couldn ’t eat smiles and he kinda needed to eat to live and he kinda needed money to eat.

Except then one of the brides came up to him, her make-up messy from crying, the smile on her lips so,  _ so _ genuine when she pulled him into a teary hug and whispered:

“Thank you so much. For making this perfect.”

And the cycle started anew.

——————————

Mondays were good.

The cheap ice cream was on sale which made it even cheaper which made Lance even happier, because it meant he could enjoy it without the nagging feeling of  _ you could _ _ ’ve spent those 1.49$ otherwise.  _ Now it was only 99 cents and that was totally a reasonable amount of money to spend on the only thing that kept him sane when the rest of the world seemed to be collapsing around him.

God, Mondays were so,  _ so _ good.

——————————

Tuesday was shit —not in general, god bless, but this one in particular. The weather was amazing, thick, dark clouds covering the gloomy sky, heavy rain drops falling against the window with the force of pebbles, an uneven but calm rhythm that should ’ve had an easy time helping Lance relax.

Should ’ve.

Except here he was, yet again cocooned inside his comforter as if it held the oxygen he breathed, unable to even  _ try _ and hide the pout on his lips, because  _ obviously _ this had to happen, and he ’d really had it coming with his stupid-ass attitude and inability to properly take care of himself or his stuff or act reasonably and responsibly for one whole goddamn minute.

To his feet were the leftovers of what had once been his phone —leftovers being a slightly loaded statement, considering it was  _ technically _ still in one piece —motionless, display unforgiving and pitch-black, showing nothing but the reflection of Lance ’s sad pout and red eyes and the general trifle that was the face he was making.

It was his own fault, really, and that was probably what bothered him so much.

He ’d stopped counting the times Hunk had told him to make  _ absolutely, perfectly sure _ to keep any and every kind of handy electricity out of sight whenever they took care of the neighbor ’s cat, and Lance  _ had _ , mostly at least, had hidden his entire equipment and his laptop and even his old Super Nintendo just in case, but his goddamn stupid phone —yeah, he ’d left that lying on the bed for a totality of fifteen minutes, while taking a shower and desperately searching the freezer for more ice cream, and that had been  _ way _ more than enough time for Nessie to slide into his room, find the the device, throw it off the bed, carry it through the apartment, and chew it to death.

Wow, thinking about it once more made it even worse. Like, ten times worse or something.

One might have thought that getting so emotional over an electronic device could not possibly be healthy, but the problem lay in Lance ’s dependence on his phone. He used it to coordinate his jobs—which, luckily, he at least still had his computer for—to stay in contact with his family and friends, to find his way whenever he didn’t know where exactly he was headed, to make lists, to make reminders, he even used it as a goddamn  _ alarm _ .

Had used. Because it was so dead that it hurt.

Sure, of course, he could have asked his closest confidants for support, and they would help him out no problem, without batting an eye, without a judgmental look or word or probably even thought. Because they always had his dumb, incapable ass whenever he got himself in trouble, so this time wouldn ’t be any different.

And, oh, he knew that he didn ’t have much of a choice. He was practically out of command without a phone glued to his body. He  _ needed _ it. But that didn ’t mean that he couldn’t wallow in his sorrow for a few hours, pitying himself and his poor decisions and his absolute inability to get his life under control.

Really. Just a teeny-tiny little bit.

He jumped at the knock on his door, pulled his comforter closer and only hummed, hopefully loud enough to be heard on the other side. Luckily, it did, and the door was pushed open, revealing the absolute best human being in the entire world — _ Sorry, mam _ _ á— _ carrying a plate of steaming food that smelled like heaven and lifted Lance ’s poor spirits by at least twenty percent. Which, really, in his current state of mind? Was a whole goddamn lot.

“Did I ever mention I love you? Like, did I ever?”

“Not in the last…” He took the plate and watched Hunk sit down next to him, pretending to think. “Twelve minutes, no. Which, luckily, means I still remember, because my memory is quite good.”

The smile he shot was genuine and supportive, but there was hint of pity in it that Lance couldn ’t ignore, although he would much prefer if they could skip that whole part at least for now. He appreciated the food, the company and the will to help him, but wasn’t sure if he could actually appreciate any poetic attempts to be cheered up. That didn’t stop him from sending a silent prayer as a thanks for the angel right next to him.

“Hey, look at the bright side,” Hunk tried, a hand on Lance’s shoulder, squeezing lightly, although he didn’t sound _entirely_ convinced of what he was saying. “Tomorrow’s Wednesday, and I do recall _someone_ here telling me they got a really decent job for that.”

Lance almost dropped his plate, because  _ oh damn,  _ that was more than true. While he did underprice his own serviced heavily almost all the time, he did sometimes land a goldmine, and that was pretty much what tomorrow would be. He ’d legitimately forgotten about that in the rush of the weekend, his Netflix-session on Monday, and Nessie mercilessly murdering his phone earlier today, but now he was, for the first time in days, absolutely  _ ecstatic. _

“Still can’t believe it,” he admitted between two large spoons of rice and curry. “Landing that shoot, I mean. I’ll gotta be extra great. Give it my all.”

Which, to be honest, he always did. As much as he appreciated being able to do photography for a living, it was still, first and foremost, a passion of his, and he never worked halfheartedly. Still, tomorrow ’s wedding was a big one—not  _ actual celebrity _ big, but definitely  _ oh damn alright, these people can and  _ will _ shed some money _ big.

“It’ll be perfect,” he announced proudly, raised his chin and nodded, maybe towards Hunk and maybe towards himself, but it didn’t matter. It would be _perfect_.

——————————

Perhaps  _ perfect _ was a dangerous word to use for the future on a day of cloudburst and thunderstorms, but for once, Lance seemed to have gotten lucky. Neither of the grooms seemed in any kind of way bothered by how cold it was, or by their suits being drenched only a few minutes into the party. Lance wasn ’t, either—rain was, most likely, his favorite natural phenomenon of them all, and he knew that it showed in his eyes and smile shining extra brightly today. Really, it couldn’t possibly get any better.

The amount of children was manageable, all the grandmas and uncles were nice, and everyone treated him like part of the family, which, really? Was probably the most important part to him, right after seeing the newly-weds happy. The lighting wasn ’t perfect for pictures, but he managed, promised himself to put extra much work into editing them later, and otherwise allowed himself to enjoy the day.

Without worrying about his phone.

Without worrying about the new month approaching.

Definitely without worrying about the inevitability of waking up with the worst cold tomorrow morning. There would be a time for that —probably later tonight, while showering, singing Justin Timberlake to himself and smiling like an idiot—but right now, he had a job to do.

Two kids clung to his legs like superglue.

“Will you play with us?”

He looked back up to all the busy adults exchanging hugs and kisses and more hugs and laughs, and grinned to himself for a second.

Two jobs to do.

——————————

Honestly, considering his self-awareness, Lance sometimes wondered why his life was such a mess, because here he was, in the shower, singing Justin Timberlake to himself and smiling like an idiot, his throat itching and his feet freezing, and hell if he didn ’t know that he’d be a pissy bitch come morning, because this cold was going to be so,  _ so _ bad.

——————————

After the success of Wednesday, there was a break. A few private photo shoots coming up on the weekend, but Thursday was free and that meant getting some mandatory shit done. Like laundry. And, wow, Lance was  _ never _ a fan of laundry day, but he was especially not a fan of  _ sick _ laundry day, so maybe, just  _ maybe _ the force with which he emptied the pockets of his jeans and coat was a little uncalled for, but then again, he really didn ’t care.

Until something fell onto the floor. A dark red piece of paper —looked like a note. He frowned, dropped his coat on the washing machine and bent down to pick the damp paper up. It had suffered greatly from getting home in the rain yesterday, that much was for sure, but it seemed to be alright. The problem, though, was that Lance would ’ve made an oath that he’d never seen this paper before.

“Going insane, eh?” he asked himself and unfolded it carefully. It was a bit like a business card, albeit bigger, although the oddly fancy embroidery on it gave him slightly different vibes. Where the hell had he gotten this, and how and _when?_ He’d definitely never seen the handwriting before, that much was for sure. And while studying the words, he realized he’d also never seen anything quite this preposterous and unbelievable, because they read:

_ Meet me near where things began. _

_ Flowers of red and blue melting to one. _

_ Bring none but yourself, with passion or courage. _

_ For fight we shall, with the cold of the blade or the heat of desire. _

Lance blinked. Blinked again, and then a third time for good measure, but unsurprisingly, the words didn ’t vanish or change and he definitely didn’t wake from whatever stupid dream this was, although it really  _ had _ to be one, because there was absolutely no reason that some big-ass troll had smuggled him this note, and especially not without him noticing.

He checked it more thoroughly, and to his surprise, there were a few more words underneath the pompous text, in the same pretty, round handwriting, saying: 

_ Victorian Park, when Sunday melts to Monday. _

“Is it that hard to spell _midnight_?” Lance asked himself with a hint of annoyance in his voice, but then remembered that whoever had written this was absolutely, wholeheartedly messing with him, so what exactly was he expecting in the first place? He considered throwing the note away without looking at it even one more time, yet it somehow didn’t feel right—call it intuition or something, but it felt like there had to be a reason for this.

Okay, yeah, there was a decent chance that this  _ reason _ was some kid messing with him big time, but then at least he ’d get to cuss them out for wasting his time in the middle of night, and Lance wouldn’t deny being in desperate need of a good fighting session—Hunk, angel of the lord, wasn’t a choice, and neither were the clients, so honestly, some premature idiot with too much time at hands sounded like the absolute ideal choice of opponent.

“Yep, world’s gonna end,” Hunk tore him out of his thoughts, approaching the washing machine. “You, grinning, doing laundry, while you’re sick. There’s too many things wrong with that for me to even start counting them down.”

“Ah, fear not, friend.” Lance waved a finger dramatically, trying hard not to laugh about his own pointlessly fancy wording. “Soon, it will all make sense.” Then he gave up, chuckled and handed over the note he’d found in his coat, before continuing to stuff the washing machine. All of a sudden, this entire chore was only half as annoying as it had been ten minutes ago. Maybe Lance should _thank_ whoever had given him this for raising his spirits, or something like that.

“Where did you get this?”

“No idea. Wedding? On the way home? Couldn’t tell ya. Isn’t that hilarious, though?”

A short moment of silence. Hunk cleared his throat.

“That’s…primarily concerning. Lance, I expect you to tell me you’re ignoring this in the next five seconds.”

Five seconds passed in which Lance did his very best to get his stuff into the washing machine without cracking a nervous laugh. He knew that Hunk only meant well, and in the vast majority of cases, his ideas and suggestions were the absolute smartest ones to follow, but this time, it felt different. Lance wasn ’t sure how much he believed in fate, but there was no denying that someone had actively given him this note. If that person really were after his life, wouldn’t they be smarter than to alarm him with a mysterious letter like this?

“Lance.”

He cleared his throat and pretended to be very busy picking the correct washing powder for dark clothes, even though it was really hard to miss, because the box they had it filled in said  _ dark clothes _ —quite the dead giveaway, to be honest.

“Lance, _please_, I know things are more than a bit tough lately, but if you’re telling me that you’re going to meet up with a stranger who dares to—what was it, sword fight you?—in the middle of the night in an empty park, then I’ll really have to consider locking you in until Monday has ended.” Hunk took a deep, desperate breath, before adding: “Bro codex.”

“You don’t get it,” Lance claimed, and didn’t let his friend answer. “I have this…feeling, you know? Something’s drawing me towards this odd invitation. I’m not sure how to label it—”

“Well, how does _dumbass stupidity_ sound—”

“—I need to go. Even if it’s just to pepper spray some random kiddo who thinks they’re funny. And I need you to support and trust me.”

He pouted, tilted his head and tried the sad puppy eyes. They didn ’t always work, but there was a tendency for them to increase his general chances in succeeding. Hunk looked at him for a long,  _ very _ long moment, squinting skeptically and eventually sighing loudly.

“On one condition.”

“Sure, sure, anything, what can I do for you toda—”

“You let me buy you a new phone. I can already see you running away without a way to call the police.”

Okay, well —

Valid.

——————————

The entire weekend passed by in a heartbeat —a very dragged, worrisome one, considering it took Lance until Sunday morning to fight off the stupid cold—and then suddenly it was the evening and then it was night and he was, very rapidly, running circles in the living room, panicking like no tomorrow, over something as trivial as an idiot writing him an awkward letter, simply because.

“You’re driving me insane, Lance,” Hunk said for the fifth-or-so time without looking up from his phone on which he was, last Lance knew, discussing work with his lab partner. Which, yeah, was most likely a little more important than Lance’s semi-dilemma that he couldn’t even explain, but it also wasn’t like he was stressing out on purpose.

Half-way stressing. An itsy-bitsy stressing. No full-blown super-stress or anything, nuh-uh.

“It’s just—what if? Hunk, this could turn out to be the most romantic night in my life—”

“Or the last one, in general—”

“—How could I not be frantic about this?”

He dropped down onto the sofa with a deep sigh, draped an arm over his eyes dramatically and wiggled his feet nervously. Maybe it was naive; that whoever had sent him the letter was in any way actually interested in his acquaintance, simply because the wording was fancy and, in fact, not stolen from the Internet, or at least not from the first three pages on Google —yes, Lance had checked.

“Well, if it helps…you have an hour left.”

He squealed indignantly, jumped up and hurried to his room with a rushed  “Thanks, man!”, because other than needing to get dressed appropriately—whatever that meant in such a situation—he also still needed to head to the park itself. Considering the nice metaphor of a day  _ melting _ into the next, he figured it ’d be best not to show up at 11:59 sharp.

“Alright, you got this, loverboy,” he motivated himself and wiggled his fingers through his clothes, not entirely sure what he was looking for. The tiniest part of him wanted to be a really big troll and dress as fancily as the wording of his note, but at the same time he didn’t entirely rule out getting into a fight, and could he really risk ruining the few pompous pieces of clothing that he owned?

Eh. Didn ’t seem worth it.

He settled with something simple —washed out black jeans, a simple blue shirt and his favorite hoodie-jacket, loose enough to be casual, proper enough to count as a substitute for his coat. In all honesty, for a second there, pulling up the hood and staring himself down in the mirror, he felt a bit like a teenager again, like he was getting ready to head to school and not into a park to meet a faceless stranger.

The thought was nice, somehow, but he didn ’t have time to dwell in it—he had a mission, after all. If this mission would be to beat up a troll or steal a beauty’s heart; well, the future would have to tell.

———————

Alright, so, perhaps the Victorian Park was a little more sinister in the middle of the night than Lance remembered. There were street lamps that made him feel the tiniest bit safer, but wow —it actually wouldn ’t be a big surprise if someone assaulted and robbed him here. He checked his pocket for the comforting presence of pepper spray; a cliched form of defense, but from trial, highly effective still.

A soft drizzle covered him, warm and gentle on his skin, less a burden and more a protective veil shielding him from whatever was waiting for him. He loved rain, clouds covering the sky and the tender, rhythmic sound of falling drops of water. It drove most people away, the fear of getting drenched in the cold, wind bristling along wet skin ruthlessly, but to him, it meant bathing in a moment of peace. He would ’ve given anything for that feeling, anytime.

His destination was hard to miss —a field of red and blue flowers that he wouldn ’t have been able to name, bedded between two narrow gravel paths, encircled by cherry blossom trees. They didn’t bloom this time of the year, yet never lost any of their majestic presence.

There was no one to be seen, but Lance wasn ’t going to let that fool him yet. A quick glance to his phone told him it was 11:56, early enough for the mysterious stranger to still be on time. Lance took in the beauty of the flowers, dark shades in the moonlight, bloom dancing quietly in the breeze. He couldn’t deny the delicacy of it, how well thought out a place this would be for an actual romantic encounter.

Which, by the way, he still didn ’t entirely rule out. Not that his past experiences were  _ too _ promising to go by, but …who knew?

He decided to leave the flowers be and instead walked over to the tallest of the trees, carefully running his index finger over the stem. The lighting wouldn ’t allow much, but part of him still mourned the fact that he didn’t have his equipment with him to take a few close-up pictures of it, the abrasive, brittle wood, all the tints of brown and beige defining it under the pale shine from above. 

Just momentarily, it was all perfect —the peace and quiet, the dim colors melting together, innocent breeze sparkling around him and engulfing him whole. He forgot about his sorrows, worries and fears, took it all in, wasn ’t even sure anymore what had brought him here in the first place—

“You made it.”

A deep, throaty voice tore through the air like a razor-sharp blade, sending a shiver down his spine and making him turn so quickly that he almost lost his balance. Time passed in slow-motion, his eyes finding shining indigo and then gleaming silver, two radiants bathing in the moonlight, taking his breath away. Bright eyes captured him in place with nowhere left to run —good, because he was already pressing up against the tree anyway. The stranger, who seemed to be as far from an  _ annoying brat _ as humanly possible, closed the distance between them, painfully slow steps scrunching quietly on the gravel. He was Lance ’s height, maybe a bit shorter, and possibly around the same age, a long white scar caressing his cheek like an ornament.

Oh, and, most importantly, he was loosely holding onto the hilt of a shortsword, the tip of the blade carefully pushing up Lance ’s chin.

Oh.

_ Oh god what the fuck what the fuck what the flying fuck _ _ — _

“Ahaha, what—” Nervous laughter bubbled out of him before he could stop himself. He tried to swallow without moving, his breath quickening, his heart racing against his ribcage painfully. A shiver of adrenaline pulsed through his body, his fingers shaking against the tree he was leaning on, but the blade rested still against his skin, unmoving and benign.

“Th-this is a joke, right?” he tried, so quietly that he hardly heard it himself, yet no doubt sure that the stranger’s piercing eyes were reading his lips for support. Who would’ve thought that the sword part in the stupid letter had been _serious_? Not Lance, that much is for sure. Something told him that his incredible charm wouldn’t help bailing him out of this one.

“Ah.”

The cold silver moved after all, flat side tracing along his jawline in painfully slow motion, the tip eventually coming to a rest against his dry, trembling lips, parting them with dangerous tenderness without doing harm. He complied —what else could he possibly have done—and locked eyes with his soon-to-be murderer, so it seemed at least, to try again. Lance didn ’t get to say anything though.

“I take it…you did not accept my invitation to indulge in a fight.”

And, admittedly, it wasn ’t Lance’s proudest moment ever, but the way this man’s hoarse voice seeped right through his soul was pathetically mesmerizing, fixing him in place without any effort whatsoever. He even forgot about the whole  _ reach for your pepper spray and book it _ part. With a blink or two, he dared shake his head the tiniest bit, enough to bring his message across without slicing his own skin open, and …yeah, that smirk on the stranger’s face did something to him, along with the lidded, shining eyes.

There was withdrawal, the blade being pulled away from his lips and, in a fluid motion, put back into the sheath fastened around the man ’s waist. Lance dared taking a deep breath, tore his eyes away and stared up at the sky in a silent prayer, begging that he wasn’t going to die tonight. How was it that he always got himself in these kinds of situations? Okay, well, most of them were not  _ pretty stranger tries to murder me with a sword,  _ but really, it was only the icing on a cake of unfortunate mishaps in his life.

He should sell his life story for a sad cliche movie or something.

His mind forcefully snapped out of the pointless thoughts when he felt a finger against his mouth, which he now realized he ’d never closed, and traced along his lips slowly. He needed to move, reach into his pocket and get this creep out of his sights, but something held him where he was, maybe the eyebrows quirked in what seemed to be interest, or the eyes that were glued onto him as if the universe lay in his hands.

“This would be…” Dry mouth, dry voice, he sounded terrible and couldn’t help clear his throat to fight the itch in it. “A really good moment to explain yourself, dude.”

The guy blinked for what felt like the first time, eyes looking up the tiniest bit from where he ’d gotten  _ way _ too close without Lance taking notice of it. If he didn ’t know better, he’d claim being in a really bad TV show right now. Sadly, the lack of cameras and or audience was a dead giveaway for him not being that lucky tonight.

“Explain what exactly? I would like to think my wording was quite clear.”

He chuckled quickly, a sad sound that died in his throat before fully emerging, because that was a) preposterous and b) wrong, because if Lance had ever seen unnecessarily fancy and unclear words, then in the strange note he ’d found. Pretty stranger—and yes, Lance was aware that giving him such an adoring nickname was not a good idea at all—didn’t seem to understand why this was funny, if his furrowing eyebrows were anything to go by. He didn’t move, his finger lying flat against Lance’s lip, the other hand trapping him and, as he noticed in horror, blocking the way between his arm and pocket; if on purpose or accident, he didn’t know, but he couldn’t exactly  _ ask _ either.

“I’ve never…gotten a less clear message in my life,” he managed to say, proud of his voice for not breaking on him, mildly surprised that the guy had the audacity to look confused. In what kind of world did he live where it was normal to smuggle metaphorical notes into another person’s coat and hope they’d be dumb enough to actually follow such an odd invitation?

Yes, Lance was starting to accept the error in his own ways.

“I see. Would you prefer I make myself clearer, then?”

And although he should be screaming that his preference would be for the guy to let go and never talk to him again, Lance nodded instead, not without raising an eyebrow skeptically.

“That’d be super helpful for a—”

His words were muffled, drowned out by lips pressing against his, impatient and hungry, not leaving much room for interpretation. It wasn ’t gentle, kind or thoughtful—their teeth ground together a bit, fingers grabbed his hair and pulled, dragging a  _ very _ embarrassing moan from him that he ’d hear in his own nightmares, because  _ what the hell _ . In all fairness, the letter  _ had _ mentioned something about heat and desire —not that his brain was in the right state to recall the exact wording—but  _ holy shit _ , who exactly was supposed to think  _ this _ would happen?

It wasn ’t even a  _ bad _ kiss, per se. Immensely unexpected and unnecessarily rough, definitely, but warm and welcome, too, a second hand pulling him close by the waist, pressing their bodies together, teeth nipping away on his lower lip, a feeling that ran through his whole body.

It would ’ve been a great moment to push the guy away and, yet again, take a chance to book it, but  _ wow _ . Lance wasn ’t exactly one to turn down a good opportunity, and if anything possibly counted as that, then it was definitely  _ being kissed hard under the moonlight _ . It almost made him forget the whole  _ blade to the chin _ part from before.

_ Almost _ .

And  _ almost _ still meant that he, in fact, hadn ’t forgotten about it.

So while he was partly blown away by the very confusing turn of events, he was still not an  _ entire _ moron. And he had questions —many of them. It took him longer than he ’d be proud to admit, but he pushed the guy from himself with one hand, cleared his throat and raised a finger.

“Okay, reel back. _Back.__”_

The short nod he got as a reply was more reassuring than he would ’ve liked to admit.

“Man, you got to…_really__…_explain yourself. With words! Jeez…”

“What are you confused about?”

Lance chuckled manically, both eyebrows raised and a hint of unbelieving disappointment in his voice when he started:

“What am I _not_ confused about? Cold of the blade? _Heat of desire_? Dude, you’re nuts. In what kinda world do you just walk up to someone and threaten them first only to kiss them after?”

“You accepted the invitation.”

_ You accepted the invitation _ , he mimicked silently with an extra-ugly face, and rolled his eyes. It was true, he had, but had he done so in the expectation of the words being meant  _ seriously _ ? Hell no! He ’d been in for a prank, not a sword to his skin! Then again, his second type of expectation had not…entirely…not come true. This guy wasn’t exactly a cute lady like Lance had imagined, but he was definitely attractive.

Attractive, and oddly interested.

“I thought you were trolling or something. I don’t even know who you are, or your name, or—”

“Keith.”

Silence. Lance blinked twice, mentally looking for a way to explain that shooting him a name  _ now _ was not really going to solve the problem, but his efforts fell flat. It was pointless with this guy.

…

Keith, huh?

No,  _ no _ , this didn ’t change anything! It absolutely did not make Lance want to ask even more question about him, like why he’d given him the note, why the stupid park, and why the  _ hell _ the sword. Not …much. Okay, maybe he did want to know.

“Let’s say I forgive you for daring to slice me open,” he proposed carefully. “What would be the alternative you offer? Huh? It better be worth it!”

He was joking, mostly, but Keith nodded as if the request was absolutely understandable. Reading the mood was apparently something he wasn ’t very good at. His entire behavior was  _ weird _ , to say the least.

“As it seems a park at night is not your preferred choice of a meeting spot, what say you we reconvene?” He answered his own question by nodding and reaching into his pocket, pulling out a tiny card and handing it over. It showed an address, and next to it a house…

It …

It wasn ’t a house.

It was some sort of goddamn  _ villa _ , and if Lance weren ’t so sure of this being reality, he’d just laugh at this point, and wait to wake up.

“Uh, ‘kay. I’ll think about it.”

“Excellent.”

Their eyes met again, and something about it reignited the fire from earlier. The one that Lance had previously denied.

Without an additional word, Keith ditched him —literally turned around and left without even saying  _ “bye” _ . Then again, that was probably something awkward to be heard out of his mouth, so Lance didn ’t try. Besides, he was still busy staring at the back side of the card. Well, less the card itself, and more the picture and the text on it.

Under two intertwined rings, it read:

_ Aren _ _ ’t you tired of solely immortalizing other people’s futures? _

_ I propose to you the idea of establishing your own. _

_ Do not let me down. _

He stared, aware of his mouth standing wide-open, and the fact that this was so much more than a simple invitation.

Weddings …

They really were goddamn special.


End file.
